


The Destruction of Cora Pearl

by Atypicalgamergirl



Series: Aethyr Dreams: Forbidden Tales of Dunwall and Beyond [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2018-12-06 00:24:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11589216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atypicalgamergirl/pseuds/Atypicalgamergirl
Summary: In 1839, Piero Joplin travelled to Baleton for an extended stay to oversee the renovations and improvements to the Gwynn Overlook Lighthouse. It didn’t take him long to find the ‘Flask. He took to one of the girls, Cora Pearl, and caught her fancy in a way no man had ever done...





	1. Chapter 1

Baleton, 1856 – From the Journal of Joplin Pearl

I went to visit Mother today in the Wilds. I brought along a sack of things I thought she would like – Morley apples, grapes and plantains from Serkonos, an apricot tartlet from Anne Bonny’s and a small bottle of Gristol cider, and threw away the untouched sack full of rot from my last visit. Except for the liquor. I drank that. There was no change in her today. I know that I will not see a change in her, but I always find myself hoping that one day I will come to her and she will take me in her arms and tell me how much she loves me, always loved me.

She does not shrink from my touch, nor does she respond. I brush her hair, and style it in the latest fashion, and dress her in clothes that would make the money’d-class of Dunwall look dowdy in comparison. The women of the Lodge care well for my mother, and tend to her hygiene needs so I do not have to. While dressing and grooming my mother are within my level of comfort, intimate tending is certainly not. I am ever thankful for the help and support from Miss Celia Wilde. Perhaps we see in each other the shadow of that which have lost – her son, my mother. It is she who guides me in my choices of clothing and style for my mother, and I am touched by her generosity. She has never asked for compensation, and refuses any offer that I make as such.

Mother’s eyes focus on something far away when I am with her, and when I take her face in my hands to try to make her look at me - _see me_ , I see a world behind her eyes that does not exist. A world I wish I was in. If I could only see what that bastard did to her to so fully drain her of all but the most basic of her humanity. It is as if her heart has been stripped of its soul, keeping her alive only in the most technical of senses. I have begged her, with tears running down my face for her to tell me what happened, what I can do to help her, how I can make it better but she simply looks through my face, past my eyes out into some place where she lives alone in her mind.

I wonder if she were to look at me, to really _see_ me would she see _me_ or would she see only the stain of my father’s face smeared on the skull of a living thing that is of no import to her? With Thomas’s help, I was able to acquire a very rare silvergraph of my father taken for the broadsheets. He evidently spent much of his life avoiding having his image captured. It is like looking into a mirror. A mirror that is buried in my mind stuck fast like a fishhook, that as much as I long to - I will never be able to reach to shatter it into a million pieces. Is Mother’s inability to see me a part of whatever organic loss that her mind has suffered, or is it a willful refusal? I will never know because she does not speak.

No one can answer my questions. No one, not even Lib Fury, knows what happened behind closed doors between Mother and Piero Joplin at the ‘Flask. There were no papers of his that Thomas’s network could turn up that mentioned her, though there were plenty on his contribution to the lighthouse renovations. If Mother sent him letters, they were lost or destroyed. I can only confirm they fucked, obviously, or I would not be here. Mere fucking does not have that effect; I know this for a fact. I have tested it a few times and have found that it accomplishes little more than when I fetch my own mettle. I can understand melancholia after the act – I get the morbs nearly every time I fuck, but this is so far beyond that. Whatever happened rendered her a clockwork built of flesh and blood, wearing the face of my mother.

I have been told many stories of her in her youth. Her beauty, her infectious laugh, her gentle manners and airs. I wish I could hear her voice just once. Feel her arms around me. All of this has been stolen from me. I mean to take it back. While I cannot have my revenge on him directly, I do have other ways. I have managed to recreate his workshop, and will continue his work. I do this not to honor my father, but to _best_ him. I can think of no better revenge than to render his legacy inadequate. Thomas has been incredibly resourceful in having his network acquire some of my father's actual equipment, and many of his books. I study his notes scrawled in his spidery hand, and I see the influence of the Outsider in nearly everything he wrote. It is tempting to turn to the Outsider like my father before me, but I will not. I will bring Mother back from wherever her soul is trapped and it will be on my own terms, and of my own doing.

Until that happens, I will simply carry on as I have been – observing and caring for the shell of her person, so that one day her soul can return to a well-kept and healthy home in her heart. I only pray that when that day comes, there is room in there for me.


	2. From the collected papers of Piero Joplin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 'United Isles' Express Courier dispatch labeled ‘For expedited delivery to Piero Joplin, c/o The Academy of Natural Philosophy, Dunwall’ from Professor John Kirowan, Fraeport, Morley

1839, Month of Earth

My dear Piero,

I have extraordinary news for you and time is of the essence in this matter. I happened to be in attendance at the Tower the night before I left for my sabbatical to Morley, and there had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Gryffid Willems, the head of the Town Council in Baleton. He came down from Baleton with a few of his council members to petition the counsel for Empress Emily for funds and assistance in making renovations and repairs to the main lighthouse. I could not help but to think of those Fresnel lens experiments you and I were discussing recently.

Now I know that fitting a lighthouse with them is the furthest from your intention but Joplin, I must stress that this opportunity is far more unique than you may realize. Not more than a few weeks ago, a young woman threw herself from the top of that very same lighthouse to her death. A _suicide_ , Joplin if you can imagine it. This is a chance to put those lenses to some practical use. The Council’s plan is to dismantle the whale oil mechanisms and refit them with a more modern, safer and more reliable alternative. What better than those lenses which I have seen with my own eyes outshine the brightest I have seen, and you were only halfway through the process when I saw it! I must admit that I am biased as Baleton is my hometown, but the people there would certainly benefit from what is some of your finest work.

Speaking of fine work on a completely unrelated issue – I found this amusing little encrypted riddle in my recent maintenance of the Baleton archive at the Academy. I think you will also find it amusing, should you manage to crack the code.

**The following is Joplin Pearl's translation of the encrypted passage which had been written in the language of the 'Wilds and transcribed with the common shorthand written glyphs used among the 'Wilds people.**

_That lighthouse is within sight of the old Traehorne castle ruins. I have yet to see you at a single one of my Baleton lectures, so you may not recognize the name. Enclosed with this letter is my written permission for you to access the files from the restricted area of the archive. You will want to pull the Traehorne research notes and findings, and study them well. There is a reason we refer to that experiment as “The Great Mistake”, and what you will find in those notes will certainly help prevent you from making that same fatal mistake. The delivery of energy was different of course, but the danger comes from the source – not the conduit. That fool Traehorne was mad to use lightning when he had far more sophisticated methods at his disposal even back then but that is neither here nor there now. You may even be able to find a way to harness some of the energy that no doubt still runs through those ruins. Within that restricted archive you will find another file – a file that is marked as the joint property of the Abbey and the Academy. Under no circumstances are you to remove or duplicate in any way, shape or form what you find in that file._

_It is not well known, but what you will find in that file (among other things) is that the Outsider is not alone in the Void nor is the Void the whole of his domain. The ‘Wilds people of Baleton have their own section of the Void carved out, so to speak – a section that is (or perhaps was) overseen by a different entity. They call their god The Sleeping God, and its name is something that cannot be physically sounded out by human mouths, nor can the human hand duplicate it – and even human eyes could not read it should it somehow be duplicated. It is some Thing of the sea that they say lives under their world – not a leviathan, but something far more vast than that either in size or in capacity – or perhaps both at different times._

_The Abbey is well aware of this, and while they do not condemn it – they would certainly not allow for it to be common knowledge. There are members of the Abbey who visit the ‘Wilds regularly to talk to the woman they call the ‘Elder Woman’ – a woman with vestigial eyes, which can somehow still see. They are on friendly enough terms, and each benefits from the tightly shut mouths of the other. The Abbey has been given quiet permission to study those lands over the years and keep whatever they dig up out there. The Abbey has plenty of studies on this 'other Void' which even I do not have access to, but this particular one will be enlightening enough._

_Do not misunderstand my use of the word ‘Wilds, Jopin – they are a rustic people, but by no means primitive. They can do things with plants that we have yet to imagine can be done. Things that make the Witches of Brigmore (for whom we can eternally thank that fool Daud, of course) look like weekend gardeners. I have visited the Elder Woman on many occasions for various ingredients or guidance on formulas, and each time have never been failed to be astonished by what she has shown me. I wonder sometimes if she is some analogue to the Outsider – a living version, or course. Outside of her withered eyes, she is quite human. I do believe, however that she can draw on the power of the Void from her part of the world much in the way we have seen those marked by the Outsider here in Dunwall, but I have never seen it in action other than in use as part of an astounding intellect and savvy. There is also a distinct lack of ‘darkness’ with her and with her people. I can’t imagine any part of the Void as a benign force, but whatever part of it she draws from seems powerful but benign, if not dormant in comparison to what we know of the Void in Dunwall._

_Even though you have my express permission to access the archive you still must use great care and caution when inside there. I have of course discussed this with Anton, and between the two of us you should be just fine should someone question why you are down there. You will need the knowledge you find, for a simple reason…_

**Encryption ends here**

I hope you enjoyed that, but back to the subject at hand. I know that you will not like this, and hope you will forgive me but I have taken the liberty of volunteering you to this project and your services have been approved by the counsel for Empress Emily as of yesterday from what I have been able to find out. I did not want you to be taken by surprise, but I expect you will get a call to the Tower within the next few days of receipt of this dispatch. The people of Baleton will thank you, and I look forward to hearing about your time there. Your lenses will be a welcome addition to the lighthouse, Piero and will be an enduring testament to your brilliance in the matters of alternative energies and of course your work across the board. Again, forgive me friend but this must be done.

Your colleague and friend,

John Kirowan

PS: I meant to mention this earlier but now that we are on the subject, you really must take better care with securing your labs. I have caught the new boy nosing about in your optics lab on several occasions as of late. He was carelessly smudging up the lenses while taking notes, and when confronted was the most maliciously polite form of disrespectful I have ever seen in a student. I always encourage healthy curiosity and learning, but that boy is strange, Piero - stranger than the usual student, and particularly so given his young age. I can't help but to think perhaps your optics lab would be better off locked. I hate to say it but I'm wondering if trusting that boy to wander so in the Academy is a good idea. I don't have a good feeling about him but Anton will not entertain even the slightest word against him. I will remain watchful, and hope that you will as well.


	3. From the collected papers of Piero Joplin (selected private journal entries)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;_   
>  _Am an attendant lord, one that will do_   
>  _To swell a progress, start a scene or two,_   
>  _Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,_   
>  _Deferential, glad to be of use,_   
>  _Politic, cautious, and meticulous;_   
>  _Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;_   
>  _At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—_   
>  _Almost, at times, the Fool._
> 
> \-- T.S. Eliot, from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

1839 – Dunwall

Damn that Jack Kirowan! Looks like I’ll be shipping up to Baleton whether I want to or not. I suppose I should thank him for keeping my focus on my work in light of the increasingly obvious: the headaches are not getting better. I am ever grateful for Alex (or _Doctor_ Hypatia as I can now proudly call her) and her outstanding work on her experimental remedy for pain – never have I been more delighted to be a test subject, the horrific appearance and taste of the elixir notwithstanding. I must remember to ask her if she will make enough to get me through the lighthouse repairs in Baleton. It doesn’t seem to require much to be effective, so hopefully I will not be putting her out with my request. Between the elixir and the salt-breeze, my headaches should hopefully stay chained beyond their reach of me, for a time anyway.  


Perhaps Baleton may be the best place for the live tests after all, given the unusual (and admittedly, convenient) circumstances. I have no issue with the actual repair and renovation of the lantorn room of the lighthouse itself – in fact, I found that I rather enjoyed the grittier aspect of machineworks at the Hound Pits ‘workshop’ as it were. The abundance of whale oil that will be removed during the renovation will be put to good use and will certainly prove most helpful with the experiment – especially since it will circumvent another ‘great mistake’ – my gods what a fool Traehorne was! Lightning?! No, no – I will show that a far gentler touch with nuance is the way to go, regardless of the enormity of this undertaking.  


So, within a fortnight I will be in Baleton – the last place that I would have ever thought to be so fascinating. I was not looking forward to working at the Kingsparrow location anyway - not with all that transpired there, and especially not with what can go wrong with these experiments in the first place. If I’m to die in this process, I suppose evaporating somewhere over the coast of Baleton is far preferable to being crushed under the shadow that still hangs over Kingsparrow. Besides, I am reluctant to conduct this experiment in Dunwall or anywhere near it to be honest. Even now at various gatherings to which I find myself invited, I shake the hands of dignitaries and renowned philosophers and watch their eyes as I talk, narrowing or widening but ultimately filming over into polite disdain. I catch their smirks as they turn away to the next hand to shake. My experiments are no less notorious than they ever were, and though people at least now pretend to listen and act interested it is clear that I am still, and perhaps always will be ‘that crazy Joplin’.  


I have found that the less I speak of this particular undertaking, the less I have to endure the ridicule from others. Admittedly, referring to it as a ‘door to nowhere’ at the start was a bad idea. As far as anyone else besides Kirowan knows though, ‘nowhere’ is exactly where it ended up. I made much ado about burning my notes and journals pertaining to this ‘door’ – especially in ear- and eye-sight of those who no doubt made much ado chuckling about yet another ‘failure’ of Joplin’s. Let them laugh. All of my notes, my journals, my inspiration and of course my recent breakthroughs in the Fresnel lens modifications are all stored safely inside my head.  


I did, however, with great care, meticulously copy out a single set of notes that explain the lens modifications in great detail and step by step lay out the grinding and polishing process along with the gaseous forced-porous infusion method. I even included the Golden Cat device diagrams, trials and findings for good measure, by way of explanation of the force of natural energies and their theoretical use alongside the mineral and aetheral energies. Inside this mass of formulae buried in my theories and findings lies a special gift: a single flawed character in a critical equation, impossible to detect – that when applied, will generate the tiniest of aetheral occlusion in the lenses. An occlusion that cannot be discerned with the naked eye, but will – with great power, generate a violent scatter array from even the most concentrated beam of aether or light. I will leave these notes sealed and hidden in my optics lab. I can think of no better gift for that little worm Jindosh.  


Surely Kirowan knew that I would never leave my _actual_ notes or live experiment lenses around for anyone to purloin (and evidently fondle with sticky fingers)? It only takes one good theft of intellectual property to cure a man of such carelessness – I will live the rest of my days on some level resenting the theft of my elixir formula, even as I have forgiven the old goat who stole it. Where my purloined experimental formulae helped cure the plague, I can’t say that Jindosh will find himself quite so lucky with what he is ‘stealing’ from me. It may be the only lesson he learns from Professor Joplin, but I will guarantee it will be one he will never forget.  


I know that these events that are unfolding are not a coincidence – they cannot be. Jack’s letter followed not more than a day or so after that last particularly disturbing dream. Clearly my brain is still sticky with the residue of the Hound Pits days, and I really should curb my visits to the Golden Cat – both equally contributed to the horrors that I saw there in the dream world behind my eyes. I admittedly never liked Overseer Martin, and to see him in a dream in such a blatant and vulgar way makes me itch to invent an elixir or wash for the eyes that scrubs out images burned into the eyes and brain by unwanted thoughts. The girl - that wonderful, pale lithe creature with hair like sparking fire, well – she I’d not scrub away but gladly would if it would get rid of those images of an unclothed and rutting Martin.  


There was some cast of the Void tingeing this dream, but it was not like my other dreams. The Outsider was not there, though I could feel his presence. Was I looking through some sort of window into an actual event (not hard to imagine, given Martin's constant leering at Callista Curnow’s admittedly pert, rounded, attractive hindquarters), or was it some sort of metaphor for an experiment delivered in a highly unusual way? There is an alchemical quality to sexual relations, and I have proven beyond a doubt in my Golden Cat observations that at the peak of the paroxysm there is a burst of invisible natural energy expelled, a radiation of sorts that has astonishing effects on adjacent atmospheric particles. I’d like to credit my specialized devices in this, but they merely accelerate the process and strengthen the outcome. Thanks to Miss Curnow, I learned not to speak openly of these devices, nor my findings pertaining to their use. Outside of the gift I have carefully constructed for young Mr. Jindosh I have never written of their use or my findings. I wonder what Jindosh will do with that 'bonus' information, if anything?  


I do not know what any of this has to do with Baleton, however. I’m to fix a lighthouse, and gather data from the castle ruins to use for the portal experiments – I fail to see what the late Teague Martin has to do with any of this, rutting or otherwise. Perhaps I’m meant to somehow incorporate my Golden Cat observations in some way, or put my devices to a use that I have not yet considered? It is hard to say – even at the clearest of the Outsider’s instructions in my dreams, there was still an element of the unknown that he would leave for me, the gift of discovery – something culled from my own thoughts, discoveries that I could truly call my own. This, though – if this is the Outsider’s doing then it would be the most obtuse approach he has ever had. I am generally uncomfortable entering into a given situation without a good deal of preparation and understanding but there is something appealing about starting these experiments with more than a hint of the unknown.  


I suppose I should start packing my trunks, and will make note to bring along my devices along with the other things I will need for the lens experiments. Perhaps along the way it will come to me as to how I’m to use them in conjunction with my work there. I will certainly need to remember to consult with Alex as well. I can’t imagine trying to work with this level of pain trapped somewhere inside of my brain. Baleton awaits, and I find myself increasingly excited at the prospect of what I will discover there.


	4. From the collected papers of Piero Joplin (selected private journal entries)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And when the dawn at length had realized itself_   
>  _And turned with a sense of nausea, to see what it had stirred:_   
>  _The eyes and feet of men -_   
>  _I fumbled to the window to experience the world_   
>  _And to hear my Madness singing, sitting on the kerbstone_   
>  _[A blind old drunken man who sings and mutters,_   
>  _With broken boot heels stained in many gutters]_   
>  _And as he sang the world began to fall apart . . ._
> 
> _I should have been a pair of ragged claws_   
>  _Scuttling across the floors of silent seas ..._
> 
> _\- I have seen the darkness creep along the wall_   
>  _I have heard my Madness chatter before day_   
>  _I have seen the world roll up into a ball_   
>  _Then suddenly dissolve and fall away._
> 
>  -- T.S. Eliot, from the Prufrock's Pervigilium - a previously unpublished section within The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

1839

The first night aboard the Hibernia was uneventful, and I wish I could say the same for last night. From outward appearance the evening was no less than ordinary. There was a stiff southerly wind steadily at the Hibernia’s stern pushing us ever northward toward Baleton. The sky emerged almost painfully bright as soon as we cleared the ever-present low fog of Dunwall, and remained clear into the second day and night. I spent some time watching the night sky early in the evening as we cleared Potterstead. The stars were ever sharp even in the light of the waxing moon. There were no clouds to speak of, and Alex’s pain remedy was settling in nicely. There was nothing of the atmosphere nor of my general well-being that would explain last night’s dreams. 

I was without a doubt visited by the Outsider, and for the first time I am experiencing difficulty separating the Outsider’s instructional time from images projected into them by what can only be of my own subconscious doing. The dream started as my dreams usually do. I found myself wandering the streets of Dunwall, dark as it always is (I find it curious that I never dream ‘daylight’, only in varying degrees of dimness and darkness). On this occasion I found myself walking steadily toward the Golden Cat and as I walked the buildings seemed to tip in toward themselves as if straining to touch their tops to one another. Members of the Watch stood silently, most smoking, some whistling as they pissed into increasingly dark and bizarrely angled corners - impossible corners wrenched into existence as the buildings strained in their tipping ever closer to one another.

Usually in my dreams others cannot see me as I observe them but in this instance I could see them turn and watch me with flat eyes – ‘keep moving’ they say with a strange accent, and when I pass I hear them hissing with some sort of strange laughter and I can feel their fingers unnaturally elongated following me, pinning me between my shoulder blades, trapping me in the midst of their ridicule. Courtesans strutted the empty streets, calling up to shadowed dark figures hanging out of the windows – dark faces who did not answer back. These were not the women of the Golden Cat. These women were Isles stock, but were clothed in some mockery of finery clearly from some other time or place. They spilled from their tightly laced corsets, and flashed their legs in translucent skirts that draped to the ground at their backs but split all the way to the waist at their front. Their underclothes were all thin dirty straps, and torn lace and oft-repaired fasteners, high scuffed boots, some strange coarse-woven stockings halfway up their legs and held affixed with roses – black roses like none I’ve ever seen. They all had the look of Martin’s girl from my other unmentionable dream – the same red hair, all were copies of one another indistinguishable from the next. I found myself walking quickly past the Golden Cat where these strange women had populated the place entirely with themselves and walked on toward Holger Square. (This is clearly an injection of my own thoughts, no doubt brought on by my research in preparation for this journey). I did not make it through Holger Square, however. I got as far as the stocks and woke up. Or at least I thought I did. 

I remember clearly the rocking of the Hibernia - thankfully not as violent as in smaller vessels. I was lucid to the point where I remembered thinking about the boatman Samuel and the conversation we had at the Hound Pits one evening as to the validity of the phenomenon of ‘sea legs’ and ‘land legs’ when Havelock had called into question his sobriety. I could not have been awake, however. I was lying there in my bunk (ever grateful to Corvo for securing me a private cabin), and heard some rustling amongst my papers on my nightstand. I was certain a ship rat had made its way into my cabin and was determined that it would not destroy my notes. I could only stare in horror at what I saw.

At first my mind saw it as it appeared – a moving pattern of light and darkness cast by the light of the moon and churned into movement by the rocking of the ship. It was not until my mind snapped into the realization that the pattern movement did not match the movement of the ship that the pattern coalesced into what I can only describe as some sort of opaque shadow form, a piece of darkness itself that had pulled its physicality from the patterns of darkness and light. I was frozen in my bunk, unable to move - pinned down by some force that I have only encountered a handful of times in the past. Though I was afraid, I was also curious and watched as it jumped down from night-stand and hissed from some orifice that I was unable to discern. I nearly lost it as its movements were quicker than my eyes were able to track but I saw it crawling up the wall in the corner of the cabin – it was somehow pulling the corners together at a tighter impossible angle as it slithered its way up, darting and weaving to stay in shadow. It reached the ceiling and stretched and flattened itself out up there. I knew it was going to leap down onto me and I could only tense as it elongated its tentacles – like an octopus but without suckers, smooth like eels and its blackness was not the natural black of swamp lizards. It was the Void itself in some form that I could not comprehend. I awoke in a sweat, again convinced that I was in a waking state. I could hear outside in the corridor between our cabins a drunk man singing in a slurred voice, singing about something along the bottom of the sea, about mermaids. I sat up, freed from whatever force had held me to my bunk and made my way to the door my only thought that I must speak with this man. I opened the cabin door and saw only the Outsider standing there. 

Usually his appearances to me are somewhat more mundane, but perhaps he had to fight his way through the strength of what can only be a fever dream that even Alex’s pain elixir cannot reach. He spoke to me about the lens experiments and the portals but his demeanor was somewhat distracted in a way that I did not think possible for the Outsider. When I asked about the creature seemingly made of darkness, he did not answer directly but spoke of some Thing beyond the stars, something beyond even his own (which verifies Jack’s and the Abbeys’ supposition that the Void is but a part of some greater aetherial whole) and that this Thing was found among several possible streams of time – increasing the probability that it would cross through into the Void at some point.

This ability to travel between these dimensions lies at the heart of my doorways, and it will be only through my precision with correct calculations that it will be possible to travel through them even in our own limited dimensional capacity. I can imagine the technical and mechanical workings of my doorways and stepping into one, but no matter how hard I try I cannot bring to my imagination any words or images that properly describe what lies on the other side. I thought to listen carefully and take notes when the Outsider was talking about the lens experiments and what I must do to assure success for now, and evidently for some future that he spoke of but that I have no understanding of.

I wrote down the name of this creature, this Thing evidently made not of Void but of ‘void’ in a general sense – a creature capable of taking form from darkness itself, but when I awoke all of my notes about the experiments were intact, but where I had meticulously transcribed the name of this incredible thing, this void-morphous creature there was only a sketch and what I can describe only as an attempt at transcribing that which was beyond my mind’s ability to do so. I can hardly describe the frustration as my mind dances around that name – it was something that was more a sensation in my brain than an actual pattern of graphemes. When I heard it described by the Outsider and he spoke its name I felt as I transcribed it thus a vibration somewhere in the area just below my breastbone and realized the implication immediately – that this void-shape, this Thing could conceivably take the form of whatever it desired, or perhaps he said that _we_ could take _its_ form and then …

my mind cannot grasp any further. I’ve tried sketching it, writing it, sneaking up on it from behind a random unrelated thought but aside from what I’ve written here in my journal and the sketch in my workbook I can’t get any closer to it.

It is clearly related to my upcoming experiments in Baleton, and while this shadow-walking thing makes little sense now, perhaps in context of my experiments and findings it will somehow be related to a form that must be taken in order to protect the human form as it travels between this world and the next, or perhaps the one after that. All I know is that I find myself ever excited to arrive in Baleton, perhaps the last place I’d ever want to visit much less be excited by the idea of it.


	5. From the collected papers of Piero Joplin (selected private journal entries)

1839, Baleton

After having spent my first full day and night in Baleton, I can only look back with regret at all of the wasted opportunities I had to discover this strange place. It is not strange on the surface – in fact, it appears quite ordinary. I was not sure what to expect upon arrival. Outside of the occasional need for hemlock essence I’ve never really given the place much thought.

The arrival into the passenger port was fairly non-eventful and I was able to have my trunks and belongings temporarily stored at the small port warehouse until my lodgings were squared away. While Baleton may be smaller than Dunwall, their level of trade and comings and goings more than warrants two ports. There is a passenger and light-load port and further up and around the hook of the coastline is the industrial and heavy-load port. It is my understanding that the industrial port is closer to what I expect when I think of ports, only with the addition of highly toxic hemlock slurry runoff from the processing plants. I will be getting a full tour of Baleton over the next few days and am looking very forward to the hemlock portion of the tour. I will be able to see the chain of production from growth to waste by-product, and it is my hope that I will be allowed to take soil and water samples for study. Poisons have never much interested me, but the proximity to the supply side has me more interested than I would have thought. The idea of dirt and sea creatures not only adapting but thriving within a constant influx of poison in their environment is fascinating to me. I remember Corvo mentioning once that the assassin Daud (and presumably his Whalers) were immune to poisons but I had waved it off as a myth wrapped in an educated guess. Being here has me wondering now about the possibility of such a thing with humans – was Daud perhaps able to somehow administer himself poison in such a way that he eventually became immune? I suppose by such a method that it is possible even outside of any supernatural ability to resist or even entirely avoid internal and external damage – after all, I can’t imagine that the Outsider would bother with gifting worms and junk fish with supernatural protections.

Speaking of the Outsider, when I arrived in port the first thing I noticed was a palpable difference in the atmosphere from that of Dunwall. There is a distinctly higher aether frequency here. It is hard for me to articulate but the air here clearly carries particles that are far more charged on the positive end of the spectrum than the negative. Dunwall’s atmosphere is like that of lead: dark, dense and bloated with heavy charge and Baleton is like polished silver – a bright thin charge that hides in the salt air, what most would call ‘brisk’ or ‘clean’ when describing the sensation. Perhaps the most notable personal consequence that I have experienced has been the cessation of my headaches. I have not had a single episode since arriving, when in Dunwall I could count on at least two a day. I must keep a separate set of notes about this phenomenon for Alex – I’m sure she would be interested in the effect that the difference in atmospheric charge has on brain fevers, or mine at least. I feel lighter than I have in a good long while. Living in cycles of pain and anticipation of such had worn me down to such a dull complacency that I had assumed that it was simply something I would have to learn to live with, with only brief interludes of release from it.

I am still getting accustomed to living my life with a higher profile. I have always aspired to be known in some way, recognized – and now that I have reached that through my work with Sokolov's help in bringing the rat plague to heel I have to admit that I find myself overwhelmed at times. When stepping out onto the docks, I was greeted by a number of people: Mr. Gryffid Willems (whose general gentle demeanor reminds me very much of the old boatman Samuel), Mr. Regent Worley, Sr. whose young son witnessed the suicide at the lighthouse, Mr. Caius Ebonhart, the Baleton coroner and a sort of jack-of-all-trades doctor, surgeon and barber, Jack Walters, the editor of the Baleton Ledger, and Michael Vehkbride, owner of the Baleton General Goods. They are all salt of the earth types, not a stuffed shirt among them. They are well-spoken hard-working men who collectively carry a wealth of knowledge and thoughtfulness that belies the usual perception across the Isles of Baleton folk.

The first order of business was finding a place for me to stay, and while I enjoyed touring the High Tider Islands in the bay and the rustic charm of the amenities (not to mention the fascinating conversations I had with some of the folk native to the islands – their accents are nearly impossible to understand but I have never heard anything like it and simply enjoyed listening in-between gaps of comprehension) I have to admit that I was simply not comfortable with the idea of being so isolated amongst mostly tourists. Rich tourists, I might add. I was gracious, but relieved when told that there were accommodations in the heart of the town that might be more to my liking.

After a walking tour of the various businesses along the small main thoroughfare we arrived at a place that was not unlike the Hound Pits for a hearty lunch and a drink. It is named The Old Philosopher’s Flask, but people here call it simply The ‘Flask. No one really knew where the name came from or why it was named that, but it was agreed heartily that the various drink concoctions are no less worthy than various elixers mixed by a seasoned Philosopher like myself. After one or two of the local favorites, I was inclined to agree. The ‘Flask is considerably larger and draftier than the Hound Pits, but the layout is fairly similar. Food and drink below, and very much _un_ like the Hound Pits there are women living up above. Now, it would be unfair to compare these women to those of the Golden Cat, as there is not the atmosphere of debauchery present here but the basic concept is the same: these women offer companionship for coin. I kept it entirely to myself, but I was well aware that there would be no better place to stay than this considering my plans to see what, if any, contributions that my experimental devices could make to the ‘lighthouse renovations’. I am of course honored and delighted to put my lenses to such a noble use, but my primary motivation is recreating and perhaps perfecting Traehorne’s experiments. Perhaps the key to that is to incorporate a level of biological energy that I doubt any Philosopher before myself has seriously considered. I don’t expect to be taken seriously, nor do I intend to publish my findings publicly but there is something there – else, I would not have been given such vivid inspiration (a rutting Martin aside, of course).

I was introduced to the owner Mrs. Abernathy, a salty old woman with an acid tongue – a woman who I find to be equal parts frightening and fascinating. She made a point of explaining security and pointed to what had to have been the largest most striking looking woman I have ever seen. She is bigger than most men, not layered with fat but with an admirable amount of solid muscle. She carries a hammer at her side, a frightening double-headed thing that no doubt has seen the interiors of more than a few skulls. She is quiet, and the few words she speaks carry a shadow of Tyvia in the various lisps and twists of her words. She is not frightening, but then again I have no reason or desire to find out how frightening she no doubt can be. There is something about her silence and stoicism that speaks volumes about her abilities, abilities that I do not care to find myself on the receiving end of.

The women here, most of them still girls - are quite pleasing to the eye. I’ve only seen one that seriously caught my eye though. Evidently catching eyes is a common occurrence for her. I haven’t learned her name but when she came down the stair (in a dress, no less!) I swear the room went silent in an almost reverence for this girl. She is pleasantly rounded where most of the girls I have had dealings with were lean, pink cheeked instead of pale or ruddy, and her hair – I’ve never seen anything like it. She wore it piled on top of her head, held up with a variety of ornate pins and clips – curly hair, ringlets I think they call them. Glossy black hair and perhaps the most striking thing was her more-than-passing resemblance to our late Empress Jessamine. There was something about her eyes, or perhaps the way her nose was tipped just so but I found myself compelled to speak aside to Mr. Willems about her. When he chuckled, I found myself reflexively shrinking inside but he clapped me affectionately on my shoulder and assured me that questions about her were common and that he would tell me more later. Later came and went, and as the night stretched on he seemed to have forgotten. I did not want to look the fool (or worse, the pervert), so I failed to ask. I did, however ask if I could be housed here and he was more than happy to speak to Mrs. Abernathy and make the arrangements.

And so I find myself now in a comfortable room – it is spare, just like I like it. My belongings arrived in a timely manner, and I have spent the better part of the morning arranging my things just so. I did manage to suss out which room the black-haired girl lives in. It was only by sheer luck that I was not caught in the hallway lurking around – she lives on the far end of hallway away from the other rooms and I found out quickly that her business is brisk. I don’t think I will ever live down the humiliation of being caught by Corvo in a similar situation nor do I want to experience that again so I was at least careful this time. Quick. Very quick. I have no excuses, I was overcome.

It is impossible to think about my experiments right now in this state of mind, at least not in their entirety. Later in the morning, I will join Mr. Willems and he and I will start my tour of greater Baleton. There is much preparation that I must undertake, many questions to ask – perhaps the comfort of rote fact finding will drive my thoughts to a more mentally productive end.


End file.
